something rough and unfinished
by allibabab
Summary: Her voice is so quiet that she's not sure he hears her, but then he's sighing and saying, Yeah, like it's something he's been waiting to hear. [Post Phyllis' Wedding] [JimPam]


Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

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_something rough and unfinished_

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The ice crackles under her feet as she follows Roy through the parking lot. Shivering, she pulls her coat around her shoulders more tightly and quickens her pace, hoping to get to the truck – to _someplace_ – fast. He squeezes her hand and smiles at her, glancing sidelong at her expression. She shivers again, more violently than before. He doesn't seem to notice.

_This is it?_ she thinks, feeling the tug on her arm, like something's wound around it, pulling her forward; like seaweed, dragging her down. Breaking off the wedding and breaking three hearts and breaking her life into pieces, and _this_ is where she is? What was the point? What was it worth?

Her eyes are burning and her nose is starting to run. She doesn't know if it's from the pressure she feels in her chest or the cold air biting at her face, but she doesn't care to find out. She wants warmth, and something she can hold on to. Not this dream. Not this ridiculous hope. She can't put her arms around hope.

Roy, though. She can put her arms around him. And he wants her to, and maybe it will be okay this time, maybe he really has changed. Maybe this time apart has taught him that she's _worth_ something, she _is_, and ignoring her isn't what she wants or needs or can handle anymore. She was fed up before and she's fed up now and will she ever just be content?

"Pam?" Roy's looking at her, his fingers still twined around hers. He's not all bad, really, just not all _right_, either. "Did you hear me?"

She shakes her head, pressing her lips together. "Hmm?" She lifts her eyebrows to mask the heaviness of her expression, the way her forehead is wrinkling in the middle, a crease forming where all the thoughts and feelings she has are settling and collecting and throbbing, throbbing between her eyes. "What did you say?"

"I said where do you want to go?" His eyes are concerned and hopeful and everything they never were when she needed them to be. "You look kinda tired."

"Oh," she says, twisting her freezing fingers into her dress. "Um, I don't know. It's up to you. I'm fine with wherever."

"Do you want to just go back to our place?" At her widened eyes, he seems to realize what he's said. "Um, sorry – I'm sorry, Pam. I just—I don't know." He swallows. "Do you want to go back there?"

It hits her unexpectedly, like a blow to her stomach. Does she want to go back there? Does she _want _to go _back there_? She smiles a little to hide the panic that's rising in her throat, but she knows she looks terrified all of a sudden, like the smile on her face was painted there – and something cracks inside, like the ice under her feet, because he should _know_ that, he should _recognize_ that, because she's been wearing a false smile these past few years and just what the _hell_ is she doing?

His grip on her fingers is tightening, like he knows what she's thinking, and she can't help but notice that his fingers are beginning to sweat. His hands do that when he gets nervous, and she realizes she knows everything about him, she's always known _everything_, and he hadn't even made an effort to try and learn her favorite color or to plan their fucking_ wedding_. Something is burning behind her eyes, raw and exposed and furious; she's never been more disappointed in herself.

"I can't," she says, and her words are a puff of frozen moisture hanging between them. They remind her of a tall, crumbling man with green eyes, a fat tear creeping out of his eye. He had swiped it away discreetly, like he didn't want her to see how she was hurting him, like _that_ would hurt him even more. Then, it was a lie, one that tingled on the tip of her tongue; this is the truth. She can't go back there. _Once you've chosen,_ she thinks, _you can't go back to that fork in the road._

Her tears are warm in her eyes, sitting on the lower edge of her vision, a half-haze of wavering light. She presses her eyelids together and lets them spill out onto her cheeks when Roy breathes, "Pam, I don't—please. I thought we were—"

"I know," she says, and lets the tension fall out of her hand. Roy turns away at the feel of her fingers sliding apart from his. It's almost like he's bowing his head, like he can't bear to look at her, but that would be too dramatic a gesture. Then again, there's something about the cold air on her neck and the way his beard casts shadows on his face that makes this a little less real than it is. "I'm sorry," she says, the air cold in her lungs. "I shouldn't have—"

He cuts her off. "No." He's shaking his head, and when a humorless laugh leaks out of him, he tilts it back and lets the lights glitter in his eyes, reflecting off things unshed. He swallows hard. She watches his Adam's apple bob up and down, and she's almost tempted again; she almost reaches out her fingertips and presses them to his throat. Her fingers are so cold and he'd be so warm, but there's more to life than comfort and familiarity, and she _knows_ that. She does. It's not usually this hard to remember.

Her eyes fall to the ground. She can see the long line of his pants and his same old shoes. The hand she just let go of hangs forlornly at his side. "I'm sorry," she whispers. She is so tired.

"Pam," she hears him say, and her eyes flit up to his when she hears the hard-edged tone in his voice. His eyes are hardened and angry now and she opens her mouth to say, "What?" when he continues, his words like needles on her skin. "This is it," he says. "I've changed, Pam—I _have_. You can't just throw this away."

She draws a hand up to her own neck and presses her fingers to her pulse. She's trying to control the pounding of her heart. It hurts so much. "Roy," she says. "You know I can't—"

"Why not?" he exclaims, and there's exasperation, and loneliness, and resentment in his voice. "I'll be everything. I can do it now."

She shakes her head and brings her trembling hand up to her forehead. Tears wet her cheeks, but they freeze before she can wipe them away, and her voice is wavering, like ripples on the surface of water, when she says, "No, you can't, Roy. I can't do this anymore." There is a sob in her throat, and she thinks that maybe if she lets that one out, the rest won't be so bad, won't be building up so much pressure in her lungs. It breaks out through her teeth, harsh and icy and ragged, and she turns her back to him before she can see the concern in his eyes. She can't be weak. She can't let herself fall back into this with him. He could never be like—

"Pam—" she hears him call, but she's already begun walking back to the building, the yellow parking lot lights glowing through her tears. Her heels click loudly, and her footing is sure, but she almost hopes she slips, almost hopes she can crumple to the ground, because at least then she could blame it on the ice and not on the pain in her heart.

"Please," she whimpers, not to Roy and not to herself; she doesn't really even know what she's asking for. All she knows is that it hurts, it hurts, and her eyes are burning with tears for what she's given up and what she can't have. She climbs the cement stairs with shaky legs, her shoes scraping against the rough material. She likes the sound, like it's rubbing away things that aren't real, like it's making things new, and she doesn't bother to apologize to the dark figure she brushes against as she slides through the entrance doorway. She's halfway down the hallway before she hears him say her name.

"Pam," Jim says, standing in the semidarkness, a shadowy outline against the glass windows. She can hardly see his face. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, hoping to calm herself, but only ends up taking in a few shaky breaths, like her whole world is quivering and she can't keep herself still. When she opens them, he's standing right in front of her, his eyes dark and anxious.

He places his fingers on her arm. His skin is so warm; she had forgotten how cold she was. "What's wrong?" he asks, and his voice makes her feel like she's crumbling inside, bits and pieces falling from high ledges and tinkling down to her feet, like sand in a hourglass, and all the sobs she has stored up in her throat come bursting out. She holds a hand in front of her face and looks down, covering her eyes. He pulls her into his embrace immediately, an arm around her shoulders and her head, holding her to him. His mouth is against her temple. "Shhh," he says, squeezing her gently. He whispers vague, comforting things to her and slides his hand down her back and up again, slowly, pressing his fingers between her shoulder blades. "You're all right, Pam," he tells her, his voice more a vibration than a sound. She is breaking, her cries getting caught in the fabric of his shirt, muffled against his skin. For awhile she doesn't know who she is, apart from the hollow sounds falling from between her lips and the feeling of strong arms supporting her weight.

She doesn't know how long they stand there, but it's at least a few minutes before she's strangely aware of herself. Suddenly, she's very aware of him too. The wetness on her cheeks is drying. He's still so warm.

She gently grasps the long muscles of his back and presses herself closer to him, her eyelashes fluttering against his lapels. Her heart is shaking in her ribcage, and she knows she would loosen her hold on him if only he would loosen his on her. She hears strains of music filtering through the walls.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles after a moment.

"Don't," he says. She can feel him shake his head. "You want to talk about it?"

She sighs, and the air feels warm and sweet in her lungs. "No."

"Oh," he says. His hands slide around her back, and his arms are long enough that one of his palms is underneath her shoulder blade, fingers soft and gentle, curling against her side. The touch is tentative and feather light, and she realizes that he's almost touching her breast. She wonders if it's intentional. It probably isn't, but then, he's always seemed to know what he was doing, even when she didn't. It seems like an awkward question to ask, though, so she says nothing and his hands don't move and it's _right_.

"Jim," she says. She feels better now, like she's been washed clean.

"Mmm?" His voice is so quiet, and so intimate, and it breaks her heart, just a little.

She doesn't say anything, just takes a deep breath and squeezes him once, briefly.

"Pam?"

She shakes her head, her lips brushing against his throat. It's not perfect, but it's something. When she breathes, her breasts push into his chest; they are pressed together from shoulder to hip. "Can we just… stay like this?" she asks. Her voice is so quiet that she's not sure he hears her, but then he's sighing and saying, "Yeah," like it's something he's been waiting to hear. There is a slow song playing in the other room, and they don't move, but it's almost like they're dancing.

They stay there for a long time.


End file.
